


blessed

by kitsunerei88



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Development, Character Study, Gen, Possibly Pre-Slash, radicalisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27053737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunerei88/pseuds/kitsunerei88
Summary: There is a fundamental truth about the world, and it is that some people are blessed, while others are not. Severus Snape is quite decidedly not.Or: The radicalisation of Severus Snape.
Relationships: Severus Snape & Voldemort
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29
Collections: Fic In A Box





	blessed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yen/gifts).



There is a fundamental truth about the world, and it is that some people are blessed, while others are not.

It is not any one thing. It is not as simple as beauty, or wealth, or athleticism, or clever wit, or a good family. Rather, it is all of these things—they always seem to march in tandem, one accompanied with the others, do they not? When has anyone seen a person who was beautiful, who was also not wealthy and athletic and clever, who did not have a thousand good family connections to exploit?

Take James Potter, for example. James Potter is, perhaps, the prototypical blessed person. The only child of his elderly and ailing parents, he is also the sole heir to the enormous wealth generated by his father’s success with _Sleekeasy’s Hair Potion._ The fact that Potter doesn’t seem to use the Potion, much as he needs it, deters no one at all; he is still considered handsome, and he is likeable, and wealthy, and athletic, and people call him clever. He is everything, he has everything, and he surrounds himself with other people who have everything.

Severus Snape, however, is not one of the blessed ones.

He is not handsome. When he looks in the mirror, he does not lie to himself about what he sees: a gangly youth of fifteen years old, with the peaky look of someone who has grown too much in too short a time. His nose is too big by half, a huge beak hanging out of his face. His eyes are large, but deep-set under heavy eyebrows that are too thick, and his lips are too pale and too thin. His hair hangs, lank and slick with oil, around his face; no amount of Sleekeasy’s seems to cure that problem, though he had once spent a truly precious amount of money on a bottle. His face is oily, perpetually breaking out into spots, but the only time that he had gone to Madam Pomfrey for help, he had broken out in hives and discovered that he was allergic to Bubotuber pus.

His robes are too short. His robes were too short last year, which was the last time he had been able to let out the hems. He will need new robes next year, which will no doubt incense his father. Tobias Snape doesn’t like magic—an alcoholic through and through, he had not been happy to learn that his wife could turn beetles into buttons, and he had made that fact very well known. There is no magic in the Snape household and, witch or not, Eileen Prince does not dare to gainsay him.

His belt hurts.

Instead, Severus will have to use the paltry sum he earned this year selling Wit-Sharpening and Wideye Potions to anxious students for new robes, and that is only so long as his father doesn’t find it. Tobias complains too loudly, too often, about how much money Severus and his mother cost to keep and feed. The only thing good about magic, in his view, is that Severus is out of his hair for ten months of the year—but still he will not pay for it. Magic is absurd, and the cost to send his son to magic school is preposterous. The money that Severus picks up illegally selling Potions at school is just enough to cover his basics, from books to supplies, and nowhere near enough for anything not strictly necessary, like dress robes or brooms.

The only thing Severus has, he thinks, is that he is moderately intelligent. But even that—

Well, that is complicated. People look for intelligence first in those who have everything else. People assume, often with very little basis, that people who are handsome, who have money, who have every other advantage in life are also intelligent, while Severus will need to show himself to be incomparable to even be noticed.

Consider Lily Evans, for example. She isn’t a fool, but neither is she a genius, and Severus has been partnered with her for Potions Class for five years. And in five years, it’s been Lily that has gotten the credit for every single Potion that he makes in class. It’s been Lily who’s been lauded, who’s had large sections of her essays (that Severus either wrote or revised) read out in front of the entire class. It’s always been Lily that’s been invited into the Slug Club, and never Severus. Severus, as far as Slughorn is concerned, should be thankful that a Potions goddess like Lily is there to help him through his coursework. Lily is beautiful, and therefore she is the intelligent one. Severus is not, and his robes don’t fit, so he is the one that needs help.

Lily is, Severus thinks, the only exception to the usual paradigm. Lily, of all people, sees past the barriers. Even as a child, Lily saw past his awkward clothing, his sharp speech and poor upbringing, to befriend him. At Hogwarts, he counts Lily as his only friend—Gryffindor or not, she is the only person to see him and to treat him as a person. She is the only person who stands up for him, even telling Slughorn that no, their Potions success is entirely on him, though Slughorn chalks it up to her modesty.

To explain Severus’ relationship with Lily would require more words and emotion than Severus is capable of expressing. It is not as simple as friendship, or even love—it is closer to sheer, utter devotion. Lily is the brightness in Severus’ otherwise dark life, the only person that he can speak to, that he can laugh with, that he can share anything with at Hogwarts. He is otherwise a halfblood in Slytherin, long the bastion of pureblood pride, and while he is not the only non-pureblood in Slytherin, they are few and isolated. Lily is the reason that Severus goes to his classes, or that he goes to the Great Hall for meals, or that he leaves the cold, solitary room in the dungeons that he long ago found and set up as a private Potions laboratory. Lily is beautiful, but it isn’t her beauty that draws him. It is everything else, everything that she represents.

Because Lily exists, Severus is not a predestined loser. Someone, and it isn’t him, believes in him.

Until she doesn’t.

* * *

It is fifth year, just after the Defence Against the Dark Arts paper OWL. Severus is minding his own business on the grounds, going through his paper to estimate his marks, when James Potter and his cronies decide to interrupt. He isn’t doing anything to them—he won’t deny that other times, he has been the instigator, but he isn’t this time.

Indeed, he isn’t paying attention at all, until he hears Potter’s voice. “All right there, Snivellus?”

He whips around fast, spotting not just Potter, but Black and his other cronies as well, and he curses himself for not noticing his surroundings. Nine times out of ten, he would have noticed them walking out together, and then he would have chosen somewhere else to review his paper in peace. But it’s too late now, and he is on the ground, his wand eight feet away from him, and he can hear other people beginning to laugh.

Why hadn’t he been paying attention? He is a fifth-year, not a first-year, and he has long since learned the rules of the school. He is no one. Because he is no one, he is never safe, and he is the only one who can be responsible for his own protection. He struggles upright, a string of nothing and swear words forcing themselves out of his mouth.

“Leave him _alone!_ ”

Severus truly hasn’t been paying attention, and he shuts his eyes in shame. Of all the ways that he doesn’t want Lily to see him, it is like this: tied up and at the mercy of her fellow Gryffindors. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, but Severus does try to keep it out of her sight. He doesn’t want her to have to rescue him—no, more importantly, Severus doesn’t want to need rescuing. Not by her, nor by anyone else, but especially not by her.

Lily is a Muggle-born. Severus doesn’t care about that—how could he, when he is a halfblood himself? Muggles have produced many good witches and wizards, and blood-status in and of itself doesn’t matter. But her blood-status is a problem because, even if pureblood superiority is not in his beliefs, it is a common belief in his House. If Severus is protected by a Muggle-born, this will not end as an unpleasant memory out on the grounds. It will continue in his common room, with no peace for him even in his dorm.

He’ll regret his words later, but when everything else fails—he manages to get to his wand, he manages to get a spell off, but there are two of Potter and Black and only one of him—he does the only thing he thinks he can do, to protect himself not for now, but for later.

“I don’t need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!” he snarls, loudly enough for everyone on the grounds to hear him. Lily might believe she is helping him, but Severus knows that this story will be in the Slytherin common room if he _doesn’t_ say this. He can, and he will, apologize to her later. Lily sees past the facades, she always has, and so, he believes, she will forgive him. She has to forgive him.

But later that night, she doesn’t forgive him.

“Save your breath,” she replies, and her green eyes are harder than Severus has ever seen before. She’s wearing a blue dressing gown, and her arms are crossed over her chest. “I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep here.”

“I was. I would have done,” Severus stammers. He can go barely go back to his dorms tonight anyway—as a halfblood, he walks a fine line in order not to be seen as a blood traitor or other Muggle sympathiser, and if anyone thinks he is a Muggle sympathiser, his problems will only worsen. He’ll probably sleep in his lab, tonight. “Look, I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just—”

“Slipped out?” Lily’s voice is icy cold, worse than a cold night in the dungeons outside of the Slytherin dorms. “It’s too late. I’ve made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can even understand why I even talk to you. You and your precious little Death Eater friends—”

Severus gapes. His _Death Eater friends?_ Forget the descriptor of Death Eaters—Severus has no other friends. He tries to maintain friendly relationships within his house, and it’s true that most of his dormmates are looking forward to becoming Death Eaters, but Severus is only Severus. Severus is only looking to survive, and openly alienating the loudest and most powerful students in his House is not exactly an intelligent way to survive.

The Death Eaters wouldn’t even take him. Severus is a halfblood—he is already impure, by their definition, so he has never considered it.

“See, you don’t even deny it!” Lily throws her hands in the air. “You don’t even deny that’s all you’re all aiming to be! You can’t wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?”

Severus opens his mouth, and then he closes it, blinking. She is wrong—she is so incredibly, completely wrong, but she is so wrong that he doesn’t even know where to begin. Does he point out that he’s a halfblood? Does he point out that even if he wanted to join, they probably wouldn’t have him? Does he say that he has no friends, none other than her, and how does he begin explaining the difficult social dynamics of Slytherin House? More importantly, how does he explain this all to _Lily_ , Lily who is beautiful and clever and athletic, who comes from a good family, and who never has to worry about how she will pay for proper robes, and books, and supplies?

“I can’t pretend anymore. You’ve chosen your way, and I’ve chosen mine.”

Severus wishes he knew when he apparently made this mysterious choice. From his perspective, everything follows, one after another in his life, and choice is a luxury he doesn’t have. “No—listen. I didn’t mean—”

“To call me Mudblood?” Her face is screwed up in contempt. “But you call everyone of my birth Mudblood, Severus, and why should I be any different?”

She turns, crawling through the Gryffindor portrait hole, and Severus is left blinking in the hallway. Lily is supposed to be the exception, the one person who understands, the one person who believes that he can be anything other than his predestined no one, and now she doesn’t.

Without her, he is not simply no one. Without her, he is nothing at all—a fact that is only reinforced when at the end of his sixth year, he is nearly killed by a prank pulled by Potter and his cronies. He remembers lying in the Hospital Wing, badly terrified by his glimpse of a werewolf at the end of a very long tunnel, but Dumbledore metes out no punishment.

Instead, Severus is the one in trouble, for having gone looking in the first place. Severus is the one who bears the blame, it is Severus who is forced to swear his secrecy as to what he saw, and the blessed Potter and his friends escape with nothing said at all.

Being nothing is a fact of life to which he is well accustomed, but that knowledge does not make his desire to be _something_ burn any less.

* * *

Severus is a seventh-year the first time he brews _Felix Felicis_. It takes him six months—he learns about the Potion early in his sixth-year, but the ingredients are both rare and expensive, and the potion takes six months of active brewing. That means that by the time he learns about it and steals enough ingredients from both the student store and from Slughorn, it is far too late in the year for him to begin brewing. Instead, he needs to wait until his seventh year, and even then, it is February when the Potion is finally done.

So many expensive ingredients, for such a tiny potion, he can’t help but think as he picks up the small flask. _Felix Felicis_ is made in single doses only—more would be poisonous—but it comes out as such a pretty colour. The gold shimmers in his ancient, pale green flask, and he swirls it once to see golden glimmers scatter over the walls of his dark, dank, dungeon laboratory.

It is a waste to take it now, not when he needs to be abed so soon, but he cannot wait. _Felix Felicis_ keeps well, so he can take a single mouthful now and save the rest for later. A single mouthful will be, he thinks, enough for him to enjoy being lucky for a few hours. He wants to know what that’s like, being lucky.

One mouthful. He can do one mouthful, and he tosses it back with eagerness. The Potion is sweet, sweeter than anything he’s tasted before, but not heavy like hot chocolate. Instead the Potion is light, almost with a hint of sunlight, and it warms him from the inside out. After a moment, Severus straightens, realizing for the first time that he hunches over slightly, and he frowns as the lightness becomes a part of him. He is light now, and he is possibility, and he slowly packs his bag and returns to Slytherin Common Room.

Evan Rosier is on the floor, gasping in pain, a circle of other Slytherins gathered around him. Severus barely knows him, for all that they’ve shared a dorm for seven years, but something tells him to go and investigate. He should know what is happening, he thinks, so he works his way over. Magically, it seems, the other students melt out of his way, and he leans over to see that Rosier’s face is pale, and he is clutching his stomach in apparent agony.

“What happened?” he asks, standing up and looking for an answer. Normally he wouldn’t—normally, Severus would shrink away, waiting to hear what had happened from someone else. “Mulciber?”

Mulciber’s eyes are dark and angry, and he squares his shoulders. “Potter and his lot,” he spits. “Hexed him in the hallways. There was a fight—no one knows what happened to him, but you know that lot. They won’t touch Dark magic, but _Finite Incantatem_ won’t work and we have no idea what happened. Can’t see Madam Pomfrey, either—not without letting her know what we were doing.”

Severus nods, choosing to ignore anything that they haven’t come forward to tell him. The Potion is telling him that isn’t important. “I have some Healing abilities,” he says diffidently. “If you would like, I can take a look.”

Mulciber’s eyes on him are thoughtful, for a moment, and the burly boy—no, a man, now—nods. “If you would, Snape.”

Snape kneels down, drawing his wand and casting a simple Diagnostic Charm over Rosier. He hasn’t much needed Diagnostic Charms in his life—the person he most uses his Healing spells on are himself, that he might visit Madam Pomfrey less than he does, and he usually knows well what happened to him. In this case, however, he is glad that he picked up the spell, because he couldn’t have diagnosed it without it.

“Spell ricochet,” he says quietly, straightening. “One of you cast a Blood-Curdling Hex—it probably bounced off a shield, and its power and effects were twisted. But the counter-curse is the same. _Terminus_.”

Rosier goes limp, his hands falling way from his stomach, and his breathing evens out. “Thank you,” he says, his voice short and stiff, and Severus realizes that he’s rarely, if ever, spoken to Rosier. Avery and Mulciber, on and off, but rarely Rosier.

“You’re welcome,” Severus replies, straightening. _Felix Felicis_ is still driving him, so after a second moment of dry hesitation, he reaches into his bag, pulls out a vial and holds out it. “A general nutrient potion,” he explains shortly. “You’re also low on several key vitamins. Don’t think anything of it.”

Avery’s eyes on him are sharp. “You’re a good potioneer, Snape. And a healer. Thinking of going into a Mastery or Healing course after school?”

Severus snorts. “I wish,” he says, with a shake of his head. “I’d need recommendations to get either an apprenticeship or into the Healing program at St. Mungo’s, and with my background…”

He shrugs. The thought of after school has been plaguing him for months, but the best he thinks he’ll be likely to get is a job as an assistant potioneer in an apothecary in Diagon Alley. He has the marks for both an apprenticeship and the Healing program, but not the blood or connections. Potions Masters take apprentices on recommendations only, not marks, and the Healing program requires a complete application with marks, a curriculum vitae, and three good character references. Most of the people going for a Healing program slot spend their summers in related internships—internships that Severus never had the chance to do, since his father expects him at home and working a Muggle job in the summers. Severus hates the summer.

Mulciber, Avery, and Rosier exchange a look. This is Slytherin, and they all read far more in his silence than Severus needs to tell anyone. Avery looks back at him. “You want to change that?”

“I think anyone would.”

“Bring him with us, next time,” Rosier snaps, pulling himself up from the ground. “This isn’t the first time we’ve seen his Potions. Don’t we all buy them, come exams? The only one to buy Wit-Sharpening and Wideye from, or Sleeping Draughts, or anything else. He made Crabbe Baruffio’s Brain Elixir in fifth year—how else do you think Crabbe managed six NEWTs? He’s not just good, he’s very good.”

“But—” Mulciber glances over at Severus, frowning slightly. “His blood…”

“You’re a fool.” Rosier snorts, then he looks at Severus. “A week from now. Come with us, Snape, and we’ll see what the Dark Lord makes of you.”

Severus hesitates, but _Felix Felicis_ is still swirling in his veins, and this is opportunity come knocking. This is the first time in almost two years that someone has looked at him and seen something—someone—worth knowing, and it’s a chance for more.

He desperately wants more.

“All right,” he says nonchalantly, straightening his bag. “Next weekend, then.”

* * *

Severus doesn’t know what he’s imagining when he follows Rosier, Avery, and Mulciber to meet with the Dark Lord. He knows far less than Potter, or Lily, or anyone else thinks he knows. He knows, for the most part, exactly what everyone else knows: The Dark Lord is gaining in power on a platform of pureblood supremacy. The _Daily Prophet_ is reporting attacks, at least one every few months, typically against Aurors and other pro-blood-equality Ministry officials.

If he listens to those who oppose the rise of Voldemort, most loudly the Gryffindors, Voldemort is a maniac. They imagine him in ancient, dirty surroundings—dilapidated manors long since faded in glory, grimy bars filled with smoke, dark and dank graveyards that stink of earth and rot. Voldemort is Dark, therefore he must meet his followers in the dark, in the most sinister of settings imaginable.

In reality, it is noon on a warm day in March, and the sun is bright. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, when Evan Rosier leads him down the broad, cobblestone street right into the nicest inn in Hogsmeade, the _Hogsmeade Arms_. It’s exclusive enough that there is no need for a sign, only a small, gold insignia on the front gates.

The lobby is more beautiful and elegant than Severus has ever seen in his entire life. Gold winks from various statues arrayed about the foyer, and the atmosphere screams of old-world elegance. Plush velvet sofas are scattered throughout the room, and the gentle, soothing, hum of conversation runs through the air. Severus can’t help but feel out of place in his school robes, even if these ones do still fit, and he tries not to think about how many people are turning to look at him. He doesn’t belong here—this is an establishment for the wizarding upper class, one which he’s never been part.

Rosier ignores them all, heading for the lifts at the back of the lobby. The doors slide open for him as he approaches, iron with touches of gold detailing, and he steps into the delicate box without any hesitation whatsoever. Severus has seen lifts before, but none where the floor and the walls are made of clear, delicate, wisp-thin glass. Still, with Mulciber and Avery at his back, he cannot hesitate. He steps into the lift.

“Top floor,” Rosier says, his words a clear order. The lift promptly shuts the doors and shoots upwards into the sky. Severus pretends that he can’t see the ground falling away from him, that his stomach doesn’t churn with a combination of anxiety and motion sickness.

The room that they step out into is every bit as subtle and luxurious as the lobby downstairs. Every piece of furniture has a place, every detail and furnishing is carefully chosen to balance and compliment the rest of the room. The room is bright, lit with a fire and clean-burning lamps despite the fact that it is the middle of the day, and in front of the fireplace stands a tall, imposing man, broad-shouldered and dark-haired.

He turns, and Severus gains his first glimpse of the Dark Lord himself. He is a man in his late thirties, or perhaps his early forties, with white streaking back from his temples. He has a patrician nose, and his jaw is strong and square. His dark blue eyes rake the four students with careful consideration, and a small half-smile curves his lips.

“Rosier,” he acknowledges, striding over to a square of sofas and armchairs. “Avery, Mulciber. And who is this?”

“Our classmate, Severus Snape,” Rosier replies, almost nonchalant as he leads them all forward to the same chairs. Severus sits down gingerly, leaning forward in his seat, as if he is ready to take flight and run at the first sign of trouble. “He’s an excellent potioneer and a promising Healer—saved me a week ago when a fight with Potter and his friends went badly.”

The Dark Lord looks in Severus’ eyes, and Severus is startled by the mild brush that he feels against his mind. Unlike most students, Severus has studied some Occlumency, but it is not a skill taught in school. His own knowledge is scattered, self-taught, and he knows only enough to know that the Dark Lord is in his mind. His knee twitches, a subconscious instinct to get up and run, but he suppresses it. The Dark Lord is in his mind, and where would he go anyway?

“A truer statement,” The Dark Lord replies, and his face relaxes into a genuine smile. “So, Snape. Tell me about yourself.”

It takes Severus a few minutes to find his words, knowing that the Dark Lord has been in his mind. “I’m not sure what you want me to say, my lord,” he murmurs, breaking the mental connection by looking down at the floor. The Dark Lord needs eye contact to practice Legilimency. “Seeing as you’ve already been in my mind, I would prefer to simply answer any outstanding questions you might have.”

The Dark Lord throws his head back and laughs, high-pitched and odd. “You’re a brave soul,” he remarks, his dark blue eyes sharp. “Few notice my intrusion into their minds, and even fewer dare remark on it.”

Severus remains silent. He doesn’t know what else to say, but the Dark Lord waves a hand and a crystal bottle, with five tumblers, comes sailing over from the sideboard. Another gesture has an amber liquid pouring into every glass.

“Relax,” the Dark Lord says, settling back into his own armchair and examining Severus anew. He doesn’t feel a prick in his mind this time, which tells him that his mind is safe, for the moment. “I gathered some from your thoughts, but perhaps not as much as you might think. You have promise in the mind arts, Snape, and Rosier says you have skill in Potions and in Healing. Are you involved with Horace’s little club, then?”

Severus’ jaw tightens. “I am not,” he replies stiffly, reaching for one of the glasses when he sees that his dormmates already have them all in hand.

“Not the shine or pedigree, is it?” The Dark Lord’s smile, this time, is sympathetic. “Horace does have a problem with that—he collects the people that he believes are talented or will do well in life later, but it is a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy, isn’t it? He thinks they’re gifted, so he goes out of his way to give them chances, so they succeed, thus proving his initial premise. He has critical failings.”

“Snape brewed Baruffio’s Brain Elixir in fifth-year,” Rosier volunteers, taking a careless sip from his glass. Severus cannot help but think that his dormmate is unusually relaxed, almost too relaxed, for a meeting with the famed Dark Lord. On either side of him are Avery and Mulciber; half of Mulciber’s drink is already gone, while Avery’s eyes dart carefully from speaker to speaker. “A NEWT-level Potion. He sold it to Crabbe for his exams.”

“I did wonder how Crabbe could have possibly gotten six NEWTs.” The Dark Lord nods thoughtfully. “But you have no upcoming plans for either a Potions apprenticeship or the St. Mungo’s Healing program, is that so?”

“I was not fortunate enough to receive an apprenticeship offer, nor do I have the usual internships expected for the St. Mungo’s Healing program,” Severus replies quietly, almost biting the words out. They are hard to admit—in only four months, he will be out of school, and he doesn’t know what he’ll be doing. Looking for a job, he supposes, because his father won’t want him back and that is another reason why a further training program isn’t possible. Neither a Potions apprenticeship nor the Healing program pays.

The Dark Lord’s eyes, however, are understanding. “That’s a crime, I think,” he says, and he raises his glass to his lips. “To let such talent go to waste. Drink. It’s only Firewhiskey. I have a proposition for you.”

Severus blinks, and looks down into his tumbler before he takes a sip. The liquid is strong and bitter, and it sets his throat on fire. He suppresses a cough with difficulty, instead croaking out, “A proposition, sir?”

“I need someone to brew me Potions.” The Dark Lord’s expression is intense and considering. “And I need a Healer. With the Ministry in movement, it is becoming more difficult for me and for those who follow me to seek regular care at St. Mungo’s. We will not be asking you for anything troubling—no poisons, no torture potions, nothing of that sort. Only the usual: various Healing Potions, Wit-Sharpening Potions, Wideye Potions, nothing more serious than Veritaserum. In return, I will arrange for a Potions apprenticeship for you, and ensure that you have a stipend for your studies.”

Severus’ lips are dry, and he moistens them quickly. He is a halfblood, and he is not sure how he feels about the Dark Lord’s aims. He is not sure that he wants to be a Death Eater, but he does know this: he doesn’t have many other options. The Dark Lord is offering him work, and this work comes with a chance at a Potions Mastery and a future.

He doesn’t see a future otherwise. A job in Diagon Alley at an apothecary is a dead end, and it doesn’t appeal to him. And the work the Dark Lord is offering is not as a Death Eater—he is only brewing Potions, Healing, and studying. There is nothing wrong with those things, and he doesn’t have the options that others do. He was not born among the blessed, so maybe this is the only way that he has to a future.

“I—” Severus clears his throat. “I am a halfblood, my lord. I would not be comfortable—”

“So am I.” The Dark Lord’s smile is wry. “I, too, am a halfblood. I will not ask you to do anything you find uncomfortable, Severus. This is a simple contract: I need someone to brew potions for me and for my followers, and an in-house Healer, and in return, I am offering a Potions apprenticeship and a stipend.”

The information is new to Severus, who covers his surprise and sudden connection too late. Rosier hasn’t reacted, though Mulciber and Avery are taken aback.

The Dark Lord is a halfblood. The Dark Lord, too, is a halfblood. The Dark Lord, _like him_ , is a halfblood.

The Dark Lord is a halfblood, and he looks at him and says that it is a crime if Severus doesn’t get the training that he so desperately wants. The Dark Lord is offering him a future, and all Severus needs to do is reach out and take it. He is only brewing Potions, only Healing, and the Dark Lord says that he will not have to do anything he is not comfortable doing.

The future he promises is a future that Severus could not have otherwise. There is no other option.

“Then—” Severus takes a deep breath. “I would be honoured to accept.”

* * *

After Severus graduates from Hogwarts, he doesn’t return home. Instead, he packs his paltry bags, and he finds himself in an elegantly appointed mansion in Exeter, the Lestrange family home. The Lestranges are an old pureblood family, with whom Severus would never have been permitted to associate in the tight constraints of Slytherin House, but the Dark Lord’s word is law. He moves into a comfortable set of rooms on the ground floor, where he finds not just a bedroom, but a sitting room and a personal laboratory already well stocked with Potions ingredients.

Not just a single room. Severus had expected a single room, but a whole suite of rooms is more space than Severus has ever had in his life. He has space to entertain, not that he has ever entertained before, and he finds that the stock of Potions ingredients never runs out. Someone has given instructions, it seems, for Severus to have anything and everything that he needs to work, and that he does.

His apprenticeship is arranged, with a prominent Potions Master, Master Eugene Hilton. Master Hilton is a whip-thin, sallow-faced man whose sharp eyes see everything in both his cauldron and that of his pupil’s. He says little to Severus that isn’t related to Potions, which Severus prefers. The Dark Lord is his benefactor, and Severus does not want to know whether Master Hilton is one of the Dark Lord’s followers, or one of his opponents carefully persuaded to accept him as an apprentice. Severus doesn’t want to know—he would rather keep his apprenticeship strictly on Potions, and the small hints of approval that he receives from Master Hilton now and again are enough.

Few people in the Dark Lord’s manor go out of their way to see him. He meets most of them, one time or another, when they come seeking Headache Relief Potions or Wideye Potions or Sleeping Draughts. Some look askance at him; others, like Rosier, greet him with a smile and let him patch them up from wherever they have been for the night. Sometimes, they come back a mess, with talk about skirmishing with Aurors; Severus carefully pretends ignorance of what they do, though he is not fool enough not to know. They are striking at the Ministry and Ministry-loyal families. They are torturing, and maiming, and killing.

He doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t think about it, and he lets the knowledge fade into silence.

The Dark Lord comes to speak to him at least once a week—sometimes to hand him a list of Potions that need to be restocked, other times to consult with him on a particular Potions or Healing-related matter. At first, Severus cannot help but be wary, but the Dark Lord rarely stays for more than a few minutes, a few words, all of them invariably polite. Indeed, everyone at Lestrange Manor is polite to him, which bizarrely is more than he has ever experienced before.

He is used to looking over his shoulder for an attack. He is used to hearing the whispered, hated word, _Snivellus_ , slipping out in the corridors between classes and on the grounds. He’s used to hearing the slightest scrape of cloth on stone and whipping around, his wand drawn to defend himself. He is used to hard words, and harder actions, and this unrequested distant politeness is… peaceful.

Months later, he is settled into a routine. His mornings are spent with Master Hilton; his afternoons, in his Potions laboratory. In the evenings, he studies whatever books suit his interest, which he either borrows from the disused Lestrange library or he orders for Flourish and Blotts with his stipend money. Potions, primarily, but also Healing and Occlumency.

It is almost November when the Dark Lord comes by his laboratory in the afternoon, sets down his usual list of Potions, and then, unusually, takes a seat on the other side of the Potions bench.

“My lord,” Severus acknowledges, the question in his voice. He doesn’t need to say more.

“I wanted to check on how you were doing, Severus,” the Dark Lord replies with an easy smile. “On whether you were comfortable, if you needed anything further, if you were enjoying your apprenticeship.”

Severus nods slowly, his focus on his cauldron of the Draught of Peace in front of him. “I am doing very well, my lord. I have no complaints.”

“Master Hilton is guiding you well?”

“Absolutely.”

“And how about the others?” The Dark Lord gestures in the air, a circle for the manor. “Do they treat you well?”

“Better than I would have expected,” Severus admits, meeting the Dark Lord’s sharp blue eyes.

“What do you mean by that?” The Dark Lord straightens in his stool, his expression thoughtful. “Has anyone said anything to you?”

“No, not at all, I simply—” Severus cuts himself off, picking his words carefully. “I am a halfblood. I simply had expected something different, for a movement which espouses blood supremacy.”

The Dark Lord laughs. “Well, blood supremacy,” he replies, drawing out the words. “It is a poor way to characterize my position, Severus, though I do think that it is attractive to many witches and wizards who form part of my base. Few people have a sense of nuance.”

Severus pauses in the stirring of his Draught of Peace. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, my lord.”

The Dark Lord tilts his head in thought. “Well—you grew up in the Muggle world, did you not?”

Severus’ nod is jerky. He doesn’t like to think about it.

The half-smile on the Dark Lord’s face is grim. “As did I. My formative memories are of the Second World War, and of the immediate post-war period. I grew up in an orphanage.”

“I—” Severus pauses, somehow feeling as though he has been gifted with information beyond any other of the Dark Lord’s followers. “I did not know.”

“Few do. Tell me, Severus—did you go to Muggle school? Did you learn much about the Second World War?”

“I did, but it was not covered.” Severus checks on his Potion, which is nearing completion. He only needs to let it simmer for twenty minutes, so he looks up. “I understand that is normally a subject for secondary school. I know only the basics.”

“The basics are enough to know that the war was ultimately ended, in the Pacific Theatre, by two atomic bombs.” The Dark Lord smiles, but there is no joy in it. “Two bombs that burnt out entire cities, in Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Millions dead, witches and wizards among them.”

It takes a moment for him to remember, but he does. It is a small fact, buried deep in his memory. The Second World War was the first deployment of a nuclear attack, and the result was horrifying. He nods stiffly.

“Muggles have gained much in power and technology in the last half-century,” the Dark Lord says, his voice calm and meditative. “I can tell you so because you, too, grew up in the Muggle world. They have firearms, grenades, missiles—weapons against which we, with our magic, cannot always defend. They are gaining in power, and the wizarding world does not even realize the threat. Dumbledore, the Ministry, they all look towards Muggles as if they are an innocent, helpless people who must be protected. No—if anything, we wizards are the ones who must be protected.”

“I’m afraid I don’t fully understand,” Severus replies slowly. He follows for the developments in the Muggle world, but he doesn’t follow how it turns into the position of blood supremacy that the Dark Lord espouses. “How does warring with our own kind turn into protection?”

“We need complete isolation, Severus.” The Dark Lord shakes his head. “Look at Muggles—they can barely go a decade without going to war with each other, and those weapons only become more deadly and powerful as the generations wear on. We cannot allow the Muggles to discover we exist, but those in power have so little understanding of Muggles that they will blunder our whole society into discovery. We need complete isolation from the Muggle world, our spaces are entirely separate and Unplottable. The halfbloods and Muggleborns who choose to join our world must be willing to reject their Muggle identities completely behind them, as you and I have done. Otherwise, the risk is simply too great. It is not _superiority_ that I espouse, so much as the protection of our community, our culture, and our way of life.”

Severus is silent, his mind whirring. There is some sense in what the Dark Lord says, but he knows what the Lestranges do. He knows what Mulciber does, he knows about the torture and killing. “But the attacks on Muggles…”

The Dark Lord looks away with a sigh. “It is difficult to make my position clear to the others, especially when they have no experience with the Muggle world at all. I do not condone those attacks, but it is difficult to stop them—especially when I need their support to face the Ministry. It would be helpful, Severus, were I to have a support that does understand my goals.”

Severus is silent for a long minute, looking down at his cauldron. The Draught of Peace simmers, bright with a blue shimmer across the top, just as the books say that it should. It is beautiful, just as magic is beautiful, and he thinks.

He doesn’t think that the Dark Lord is wrong. Everything he knows about the Muggle world matches—Muggles do have incredible firepower in their weapons, and when he compares it to the wand in his pocket, he cannot deny that his stick of wood feels exceptionally flimsy against a shell or machine gun or bomb. He thinks about his father—his mother’s magic never shielded either of them from his father’s fists or his belt. He thinks about the neighbourhood he grew up in, one where the Muggle coppers drive through and dare not leave their cars, about the threat of violence with which he has always, always lived. He even thinks about Hogwarts, about how it was always the most Muggle-supportive people who victimized him, who never, ever passed up an opportunity to try to hurt him.

And he thinks about these last few months, where the so-called pureblood supremacists around him have been polite, even kind. He thinks about Rosier’s lopsided smile every time he comes in for Healing of some sort, about every polite good-morning and good-day and good-evening he’s received while living here, about how no one has ever once called him _Snivellus_ or said anything about his hair or his face or his clothes. And he thinks about Potions, and about the Potions apprenticeship that he would not have had without the Dark Lord.

“I can help,” he says.

* * *

Severus Snape specializes in surveillance missions. He is good with a wand, but with his existing talent in Occlumency, the Dark Lord provides him with personal training to make the most of it. With nightly private tutoring sessions, Severus becomes an Occlumens to rival the Dark Lord, which is all the more useful when he is sent on surveillance. If caught, Severus will not give everything up to a Ministry Legilimens, and his talent in Potions gives him additional protections for Veritaserum as well. He becomes the Dark Lord’s best spy, carrying information from Diagon Alley, the Ministry, and elsewhere into the Dark Lord’s ears.

Over three years, he rises in the ranks. It takes him a year to be granted the Dark Mark—a high prestige, then, and he takes it shortly after Evan Rosier does even though he has been in the Dark Lord’s service only half as long. The people around him become, if not friends, at least allies.

He is respected in the Dark Lord’s ranks. His quiet words are heeded, and he becomes one of the Dark Lord’s chief advisors. The Dark Lord considers him one of the brightest in his organization, and that high praise carries weight. He is not involved in any wanton torture or killing—indeed, he scorns it and speaks out against it when he can, but he sees the Dark Lord’s conundrum. Those that are interested in those pursuits are many, uninterested in the wider political issue, and there is little he can do to stop them. They have few enough followers.

It is early in June, and Severus is in the Hogs Head Inn. He had been caught and kicked out of the bar at least twice before, but it is Dumbledore’s chief meeting location for his own informants. On a crowded night, it is easy enough to slip in under a disguise, and the information he can learn is worth the risk. Better yet, Aberforth Dumbledore isn't likely to do much other than throw him out when he is discovered, because far be it from Dumbledore’s mind to consider Severus Snape as one of the Dark Lord’s highest spies and advisors. After all, he is only Severus Snape.

He sees Dumbledore meet a spindly, thin woman, whose gossamer robes and wide, circular spectacles only enhance her resemblance to stick insect. He doesn’t hear the words they exchange, but shortly thereafter they head for the stairs. Curious, he waits ten minutes and follows—he does not recognize her, but perhaps this is one of Dumbledore’s many informants. If needed, they will be able to track her down later.

It takes him time to slip through the crowd and up the back stairs. He has to stop nearly four times, holding himself close to the wall under his Disillusionment Charm and barely breathing, as others go past him in the narrow corridors. The Hog’s Head Inn reminds Severus too much of where he came from, with the dank, dark corridors and the faint smell of livestock in the air. It stinks, and his nostrils flare.

Dumbledore and his guest are on the third floor, quieter than either the first or the second, and Severus settles in to listen. It is only a job interview, he realizes after a few moments—there is an open slot for Divination. That is of no interest to him, and he is about to leave when he hears it.

“ _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches_ ,” a raspy voice declares, very much unlike either of the voices he heard previously, and Severus freezes. “ _Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies—”_

“I was wondering where you had gotten off to,” Severus hears from behind him, as a hand grips the back of his neck. He cranes to hear the next words, but the hand drags him back, away from the door. He can’t hear anything further, and he curses internally. His wand is close to hand, but after a moment’s thought, he doesn’t draw it. In the middle of one of Dumbledore’s strongholds, he is outmatched.

“You know you’re not welcome here,” Aberforth Dumbledore says conversationally, towing him down the stairs. “This is, what, the third time?”

“It’s a public establishment,” Severus snaps back, though he doesn’t expect Dumbledore to reply. Indeed, he doesn’t, and instead only ushers him out the front door and slams it shut behind him. Severus stares at the door for a moment, before shaking his head and Apparating back Lestrange manor.

The Dark Lord is in the study, a room barely used by any of the Lestranges. The Lestranges are, Severus as long since learned, rather more action-oriented in their leanings. He is alone, a rare state indeed, and his dark blue eyes are tired.

He looks up, spotting Severus in the doorway and motioning him in. “Severus. Tell me you have something useful for me.”

“A bad night?” Severus asks instead—he is close enough to the Dark Lord to be permitted these informalities.

“Gilbertson was arrested.” The Dark Lord shakes his head, and Severus winces. Gilbertson had been a low-level Ministry employee, useful largely because he was low-level enough that no one paid attention to him. “We’ll need to organize a release for him, but his usefulness is effectively done. He is not good at combat.”

“In that case, I may have something that might cheer your spirits,” Severus says, taking a seat without invitation in the chair across the black-varnished desk from the Dark Lord. This, too, is a privilege he has long since earned. “I heard a snatch of a prophecy concerning you, though it is incomplete.”

“A prophecy?” The Dark Lord looks up sharply.

“ _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches_ ,” Severus recites. “ _Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies._ Unfortunately, I was then identified and thrown out. From the Hog’s Head Inn. _”_

“We should burn that hellhole,” the Dark Lord replies absently, putting his fingers together in thought. “The one with the power to defeat me approaches, is that so? And born to those who have escaped me three times, to be born at the end of July.”

“Yes.”

“The Potters,” the Dark Lord declares, and Severus’ eyes widen. He would be a fool not to know that Lily, _his_ Lily, had married James Potter a year ago—unseemly early, for wizards, but then Potter had been rumoured to have lost his parents not long ago. He even knows, from various sources, that Lily is pregnant, and that she is due at the end of July. “The Potters fit.”

“I’m sure—” Severus clears his throat. “I’m sure there are several families that would fit.”

“No.” The Dark Lord shakes his head. “It’s the Potters, I sense it.”

“But—” Severus cuts himself off, sorting through his thoughts. The Dark Lord looks at him, direct eye contact, and Severus—Severus could fight him off or deceive him, if he wished to, but he doesn’t. He lets the Dark Lord in, lets him see the maelstrom his thoughts have become.

Lily was his first friend, and until that fateful day at the end of his fifth year, his only friend. Lily was always the exception, the one person that saw past Severus’ appearance, past his poverty, past his upbringing, past his awkwardness and ungainliness. She was always the one who had given him hope, and then one day, one day a little more than five years ago, she had stopped. And then there was no one at all, until—

“But what?” The Dark Lord prompts, and his eyes are very blue, the smile on his lips very sly, as he reaches out and touches Severus on his arm.

“But nothing,” Severus replies finally, staring back into those blue, blue eyes. “Nothing at all.”

Lily Evans is one of the blessed. Severus Snape is not, and so for him, there is no other possible answer.

**Author's Note:**

> Yen: Thank you for such a fantastic prompt, I couldn't resist. "Radicalisation" may be one of my magic words. I hope I managed to do it justice!


End file.
